He Better Have A Damn Good Reason (and he did)
by SplatDragon
Summary: Hosea wrapped his arms around him, and he could hear the gang walking away to give them their privacy, his face wet where he rested it against his back, his breath hitching with quiet sobs, reaching down out of habit to run his fingers through Arthur's hair only to pause, hand hovering awkwardly, a strangled sound breaking in his throat, and he wrapped his arms around them both.


**Whumptober 2019, #31: "Embrace" and Alternate Prompt #10: "Nightmare"**  
**Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Pleading"**

Arthur still hadn't come back.

He'd left nearly five days ago, now, and Dutch was furious.

It wasn't uncommon for Arthur to up and disappear for a few days, going who-knows-where but returning with money for the gang, some skins and usually a carcass on the back of his horse. So they didn't mind, knew he wasn't one for staying near home, but he always _told_ them, never just up and disappeared like this and, with how things were going Dutch wasn't concerned, but apoplectic.

"Dammit, Hosea! He knows he can't just go gallivanting around right now, he _knows_ we need everyone right now!" the man snapped, pacing back and forth on the balcony, running his fingers through his mussed hair. Bloodshot eyes darted this way and that, the strain of the last few weeks obvious.

Hosea sighed, looking pitifully at his friend. The man needed rest, to lay down and sleep for a week. Have the weight of the world taken off his shoulders if even for a moment. And he knew losing Arthur, not knowing where he was, was worrying him, that his anger was a cover for how concerned he was for their son.

Or, at least, he hoped.

He stepped forward, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder, giving him the kindest smile he could, trying to put him at ease. "I'm sure he has a reason, Dutch—" before he could say anything more, however, Dutch flinched away from him, eyes wide and dark, spitting

"He _better_ have a damn good reason, Hosea! We don't have _time _for this!" so loudly that Hosea could see Javier, Bill, and some of the others turning to look. He grimaced: they needed to present a united force in front of everyone, not let them see them fight.

"Dutch, he'll come home soon." he promised—and he was certain he would. Arthur always had, and he always would. The boy was as loyal as a street dog, given attention and scraps, and he'd never up and leave. He was their family, and they were his, and to him there was nothing more important than family.

"_-there?"_

"He better," the man growled, as agitated as a cornered street dog, beginning to pace again, "I—_we _need him! We can't rob that trolley station without him, Hosea."

"_-goes there?"_

Hosea frowned—he didn't much like the idea of robbing the trolley station, he knew that he'd received the tip-off from Bronte, and why would the man help them rob his own city? But now was _not_ the time to speak against it, so he said instead "He'll come, Dutch, you know he will. He never turns down a chance to help you, you know that." Their poor, foolish boy was too loyal for his own good. Hosea couldn't ever remember a time when he hadn't said yes to helping do _anything_, from doing chores around camp or hunting to holding up a coach or robbing a bank, after all.

"_I said who goes there?!"_

Karen's voice thundering suddenly from the gate made them jump, hands dropping to their guns. They scanned the treeline, trying to see what she had, only to draw their weapons when she screamed shrilly, Charles dropping the hay he was carrying in his rush to come running, the others flooding out of the mansion, the woman staggering away from her post, rifle thudding to the dirt.

Not wanting to waste time running downstairs, the two men hurried to the edge of the balcony, squinting to try and see what had alarmed her so, only barely able to make out a silhouette atop a horse. But something about it was very, _very_ wrong, Dutch leaning forward, still clutching his revolvers, "What is _that_," - was the man ducking his head down?

The man was nearing camp, and Hosea gasped "_Arthur?"_

And it was him. They couldn't see him yet, he wasn't close enough, but his tan duster was unmistakable.

Mary-Beth screamed shrilly, so suddenly and horribly that Dutch's finger twitched down to the trigger of his gun, and those below them that were closer to Arthur skidded to a stop with sounds of horror. "It's Arthur!"

They could see him then, and Dutch felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. He couldn't breathe, oh _god_, he couldn't breathe. Hosea was saying something behind him, "_Oh god, Arthur, oh god no,"_ but his ears were buzzing, his heart leaping and bounding in his chest, and it wasn't fair because Arthur's couldn't any more, his mouth was dry and his stomach was churning, and then he was vomiting, emptying his stomach on the wood beneath him. He heard a thump behind him, a scraping sound as Hosea slumped against the wall, a funny, awful whining sound tearing from his throat, but he couldn't even think of going to him, didn't think he could even get to his feet, and when had he fallen to his knees?

'_What the hell have they done to my boy?'_

He was vaguely aware of a gunfight breaking out, gunfire dull in his ears, voices shouting, but he couldn't tell what they were saying, nonsense rattling around his head. All Dutch could do was stare at Arthur, watch as that horse reared, his boy falling out of the saddle in a way he hadn't since he'd been a teenager, slumping to the ground, his head slipping from his hands and tumbling along the ground like a carelessly discarded apple, nearly trampled as the horse fled and ignored as though he were nothing more than a dropped potato sack.

Dutch didn't know how long the battle lasted, could only stare at the corpse of the man he called a son, hearing Hosea gasping behind him, breath hitching, only that it slowly went quiet, and when the gang began to gather around Arthur's corpse, he staggered to his feet, having to grab the banister to pull himself up, legs feeling wobbly and weak beneath him, lurching to the door, barely aware of Hosea behind him.

They hurried downstairs, not wanting to go outside, knowing that seeing Arthur would make it all _real_, that they wouldn't be able to pretend it was some man who _looked_ like him but wasn't, that Arthur would come riding in soon, confused as to why they were so upset.

But they couldn't put it off forever, had to make sure everyone was alright and unharmed, opening the doors to the sight of countless O'Driscoll corpses slumped on the ground, the gang standing around one in particular.

Feeling as though they were moving through molasses, their feet dragging through mud, they approached the fallen member of their family. The gang split before them like the red sea, eyeing them warily, and it was impossible to ignore the redness of some of their eyes, the glassiness of the others', the men trying not to cry.

Arthur laid before them, and Dutch retched. He was stretched out, limp and sprawled in a way that could only ever be accidental, his duster dark with dried blood. His eyes, though, were drawn to his neck and, from the strangled sound that Hosea made, he knew that it was the same for him.

It looked like someone had taken a hatchet to his neck. The wound was in no way clean, chunks of meat and flesh sticking out, and oh god he could see his spine, or what remained of it, the bones shattered, scattered throughout the stump that remained of his neck. Dutch dropped to his knees and vomited.

"Oh, god, Arthur. Oh god." he could barely see his poor boy's head off to the side, out of the corner of his eye, and could only look at it for a moment before his stomach churned and, oh god no, he couldn't look. But the image of his poor son's face, mutilated, eyes carved out of his head, twisted into an expression of utter agony and pure terror—well, he'd never be able to forget it. He'd see it every time he closed his eyes, would see it asking "_Dutch, why didn't you help me? I trusted you!"_ in his nightmares.

Dutch crawled forward, uncaring that he was soaking his pants in his own vomit, putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder like he had always done, dropping his head down on his chest. "No, Arthur, no, please. Don't do this." Hosea knelt down behind him, putting his hand on his shoulder, and Dutch wanted nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare, wake up where everyone was still alive, where Sean was still babbling on about his Da and Arthur was sitting by the campfire. Jenny was singing with Javier while Mac and Davey bickered.

But there was no denying that the cold body beneath him was real, tacky against his skin, and when he wrapped his arm around his back and moved to cradle him in his lap he was limp in the way only a dead body ever was, and there was an awful, animal like keening that took him a long moment to realize that oh, that was him.

Hosea wrapped his arms around him, and he could hear the gang walking away to give them their privacy, his face suspiciously wet where he rested it against his back, his breath hitching with quiet sobs, reaching down out of habit to run his fingers through Arthur's hair only to pause, hand hovering awkwardly where his head _should_ have been, a strangled sound breaking in his throat, and he wrapped his arms around Arthur and Dutch both as Dutch's keen died down, replaced by sobs that left him gasping for breath, shuddering in Hosea's embrace, unaware that they were both thinking the same thing,

'_Please, I want to wake up.'_


End file.
